


Expresso

by aozu



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, Gen, Hipsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 10:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aozu/pseuds/aozu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who on earth demands to be served tea in a coffee shop? </p><p>It’s a <i>coffee shop</i>, dammit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expresso

**Author's Note:**

> I would say I wrote it for Mission00Q but in reality I just wanted a coffeshop AU. Because Bond should totally wear an apron, just saying.
> 
> Special thanks to the _Tony to my Steve_ for the beta, because I started writing half in past, half in present tense and it fucked my brain.

If he were to be completely honest, he would admit that this job wasn’t half bad—but he isn’t, so he scowls and flicks through the change in the cashier, pretending to be busy. He isn’t supposed to be here—in a coffee shop, or _café_ , as M had so insisted on calling it. It was a bloody _hipster_ coffee shop to boot. White washed wall tacked with weird shapes that made no sense, a vintage stereo system tucked in the corner, and vinyl records stashed on a shelf cluttered with other yellow worn books and a globe.

 

Two months ago he was on bodyguard duty as usual and then a month ago some fucking idiot ran over him with a car, and then three weeks ago he discovered a pull in his right shoulder that affected his aim. Two weeks ago his employer refused to hand him the jobs until the muscle was fully healed, and one week ago his aunt so conveniently ordered him to help her out with her _coffee shop, not café_ , and he couldn’t say no, because M knew how to hunt him down.

 

(There’s a reason he’s good at his job after all.)

 

Nevermind that he was going on to 40 and did I mention, too fucking old for this?

 

“Can’t you just hire some poor undergrad kid to do it?” he had groaned over the phone.

 

“Those bloody lads can only afford part time and I need another full timer,” M had stated crisply. “See you tomorrow.”

 

Just out of spite, he had sauntered into _M16_ an hour later than he was supposed to arrive, only to find out that M had anticipated it and he was therefore, not late. Goddammit. Eve, a long time friend and the other full timer, was a gorgeous lady with razor sharp wit. She had only smirked and tossed him his apron— _apron adorned with a mustache what the fuck_ , and ran through the various types of coffee that was on the menu. He was confined to coffee making duties until the third day wherein Eve determined he was competent (Ha. Ha.) enough to work the cash register.

 

“Don’t scare all the customers with that grumpy face of yours, old man,” Eve had whistled as she walked back in carrying clean mugs.

 

“They’ll be dazzled,” he replied dryly.

 

Other than the fact that he did have a good friend for company, and the rather relaxed atmosphere of the annoying indie tunes playing twenty four seven in the background, he was starting to get extremely bored, especially since it was a major downgrade from actually doing _something_. Like beating people up.

 

He stretches back his shoulder and winces, wondering how long more it’ll take before he had an excuse to ditch his stupid job. Wait, was M even going to pay him?

 

 _8 59 a.m_. One more minute to the horrors of hipster coffee.

 

Exactly one minute later the front door was pushed open and a figure trudged in. He recognized the kid—the only kid to have come exactly at nine the two other days he worked here and whose order Eve always took care of personally (hey, she insisted). Not that he noticed, except he did, because this kid was the definition of ridiculous—he had the messiest head of dark ink hair that somehow did not cover his hipster glasses, a laptop tucked underneath his arm but it was barely seen because of the huge trenchcoat that threatened to swallow him. Beneath that was probably a brown cardigan that silhouetted the youth’s rather slim frame.

 

The kid always sat at the back of the shop on that ridiculously huge push couch just behind the stereo, and he would bet that the youngster actually spent the five hours he stayed typing up some debate about how vintage glasses and mustaches were so ironic that they’re not really.

 

The boy blinks when he approaches the counter, obviously not recognizing the new cashier of the day. He watches the other trail his eyes quietly over his own form; a slight frown to the younger’s features and a quirk of his lips.

 

“The seventh,” he murmurs to himself, and then frowns more visibly. “Is Miss Moneypenny not working here anymore?”

 

The _accent_. God. He sniffs. “She’s somewhere  at the back, digging out the beans. What do you want?”

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be more courteous to your customers?” The youth stares at him.

 

“Not when they’re in their pajamas,” he shrugs, because well, he didn’t want to work here, and what’s the most M could do?

 

Fire him? Ha.

 

“I could issue a compliant and get you fired, double-o seven.”

 

He raised an eyebrow at the nickname, and before he could utter something stupid like _can’t you read the nametag_ because he wasn’t wearing a nametag, Eve appeared from the backdoors with a couple of paper bags in her arms, which she placed on the counter.

 

“Oh hey,” Eve smiles when she spots the youth at the counter. “Good morning.”

 

“Good morning, Miss Moneypenny,” the younger smiles softly, hugging his laptop closer to him. “I was afraid you were switched permanently for this asshat.”

 

Eve laughs at the nonchalant tone. She waves him away from the cashier even as he glares at the boy.

 

“Him? Nah, he’s not so bad. All bark and no bite, like an old dog.” Eve grins, ignoring the growl. “What would you like? The usual?”

 

“Please and thank you.”

 

“So what’s his usual?” he asks by way of curiosity, watching the youth’s eyes dart around as he walked over to his usual place and made himself comfortable.

 

“Earl grey tea. No milk, one sugar,” Eve replies, shifting through a box.

 

“Tea? Since when do we serve tea?”

 

“We don’t,” Eve answeres. “But for Q, there’s always an exception.”

 

“For who?”

 

“Q,” she sighs patiently, pointing to a mug on the rack. “Take that for me, will you?”

 

He frowns, grabbing the said mug—she was being literal, because it was a scrabble mug with the letter Q on it—fucking hipsters—and passes it over. “So why the exception again?”

 

“Because he’s _Q_.”

 

The confusion must show on his face because Eve rolls her eyes. “He comes here because there isn’t another decent café—“

 

“—coffee shop, we only serve damn coffees—“

 

“— _café_ that has free wifi and awesome company so, give the poor boy some space and let him have a place to do his work, hmm?”

 

“What does he do? Write reviews for mainstream indie music for some bloody chick magazine?”

 

“You do know that’s an oxymoron right?” Eve states as an afterthought, pouring hot water into a pot. “You’re oddly interested. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

 

He shook his head. “Weird kid. He called me double-o seven, like some kind of fucking agent.”

 

“That’s because you’re the seventh replacement since he’s starting coming here,” Eve explains.

 

“He noticed?”

 

“He does,” she nods, and pushes the pot to him. “Shoo. Go and make friends with him if you’re so bloody curious.”

 

“Huh,” he eyes the pot, and hesitates to take it. “How much does he pay for this?”

 

“Well,” Eve coughs, and his eyes narrow.

 

It’s not that he cares whether the establishment makes a profit—that’s M’s problem, but it’s the _rule_ of the thing. “Eve.”

 

“Technically, it’s not on the menu,” she says with a grin.

 

“Technically, you shouldn’t even be serving him stuff that isn’t on the menu,” he retorts. “How long has this been going on?”

 

Eve shrugs. “Quit being so hung up about it,” she huffs. “It’s just hot leaf juice.”

 

“Do you have a thing for that kid?” he presses, because wow, the kid has been getting free tea for what, months?  A year? “I mean, no offense, but it looks like pedophilia no matter which way I see it.”

 

She slaps his shoulder, and he masks the wince. “Shut up. He’s cute, but I’ve got my sights on somebody else. You, on the other hand,” she pushes the pot right into his hands firmly. “Need to serve a customer.”

 

“He’s not a paying customer—why should I give him any service?”

 

“Just, ugh,” Eve squints at him. “Look, there’s another customer walking in”— and the door does swing open—“and if you have any issues, take it up with Q himself.”

 

He scowls and stalks over to the mop of messy hair just as the next customer arrives at the counter. Q barely acknowledges him as he approaches, hands flying over his keyboard at record speed. He’s curious as to what Q is actually doing—it doesn’t really look legitimate whatever it is, Q could be finger smashing the keyboard for all he knows. The hands pause the moment he hovers behind him, and tap of a key brings the screen to black before he can even catch a glance.

 

“Do you need something, double-o seven?” Q looks at him calmly.

 

“Yeah,” he replies. “Another order. We don’t serve tea in this _coffee_ shop.”

 

“But I have been served tea all the other times I’ve been here.”

 

“But it’s not on the menu.”

 

“But you have it.”

 

“No we don’t.”

 

Q gives a pointed look at the tea pot in his hands. “Yes you do.”

 

“Only because your sugar momma bought these on her own volition,” he states. “Also, you owe me for all that you’ve drank, fucking freeloader.”

 

Q is halfway smirking, the little bastard. “But it’s not on the menu.”

 

He contemplates manhandling the younger out of the door based on failing the _respect for your elders_ criteria. “Bloody coffee shop,” he mutters under his breath.

 

“It’s a café,” Eve elbows him from behind, and swiftly takes the pot from his hand. “Quit pestering him. I thought you didn’t care about this café.”

 

“I don’t care about this _coffee shop_ ,” he huffs, crossing his arms.

 

“Thank you, Miss Moneypenny.”

 

“Always, Q,” she smiles, ruffling up the younger’s hair. “Back to work, old man,” she looks at him. “You have some coffees to make.”

 

“We don’t serve fucking _teas_ ,” he thought to add again, just in case. “This isn’t the end.”

 

Q pauses just as he was about to begin typing. “Was there a beginning, double-oh seven?”

 

Perhaps it’s the small smug quirk of the lips but he finds himself lingering even as Eve walks back to the counter.

 

“The name’s Bond,” he says after a while. “James Bond.”

 

Q watches the man saunter back to the coffee machine, eyes flickering back to the pot of tea sitting on his table.

 

“Hello, James,” he smiles, and pours himself a cup.


End file.
